


Lush

by Anythingtoasted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 15:43:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>post-s8 ficlet. pwp. fluffy as all get-out. ♥</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lush

Dean slides his hands up his back, over his shoulders, into his hair. Curls them into fists. Rolls his body against Castiel’s, the angel braced above him on his elbows, both palms cupping Dean’s face.

“ _God,_ I missed you.” He mutters before the angel kisses him, eyes closed. Castiel draws back and looks down at him.

“Likewise.” He says, in one breath, and it skitters across Dean’s mouth like relief. Castiel looks at him for a long, long moment, his hands warm on Dean’s face, eyes trained on him unblinking, fixated; pupils blown wide, lashes dipping low when his gaze traces the curve of his chin, his mouth, the slope of his nose. Castiel grunts – surges forward to kiss him again, sloppy and desperate, biting his lip in his haste. He draws back. “Sorry.” He says, and presses his mouth to Dean’s lower lip, lush.

“S’fine.” Dean mutters back, grinning at him; he kneads his hands in Castiel’s hair; inhales, deeply, then sighs out. The angel’s thumbs, at Dean’s temples, are warm.

He pulls back; looks at Dean for a second, like he’s trying to memorise his face (he hardly needs to; but, then, it never hurts to make sure), then makes a noise, low in his throat,  _aching,_ and kisses Dean’s cheek.

Then the space below his eye; then his other cheek, the corner of his mouth, all on halting little huffs of breath. His knees, either side of Dean’s chest, are warm when Dean slides his hands down Castiel’s naked back; he puts his palms on them, fingers spread wide. Castiel rises up a little, shifts – ducks his head, moves his hands down. Kisses Dean’s neck, full and soft, open mouthed. He murmurs, “I’m so sorry.” And his voice is taut with it, strung out, poised to snap. Dean half-laughs, and knows Castiel can feel it against his lips.

“It’s okay, Cas.” He strokes up and down the angel’s thighs with his hands, slow. “Seriously. It’s okay.”

Castiel noses at Dean’s neck, his hair brushing against the line of his jaw; he licks into the hollow where his collarbones point; his eyelashes tickle Dean’s skin. “Nevertheless.” And Dean doesn’t know how he manages so many syllables when his voice is so hoarse, when Dean is so glad to see him he’s  _shaking._ He doesn’t say anything else; the word is enough.

It’s so easy, surprisingly easy, to fall into this again; into Castiel’s warm arms, his diligent hands. To roll his hips against him where they’re fit together, to hear Castiel’s breath shatter, just a little; feel him huff, wetter, hotter, against Dean’s skin. Castiel shifts for better contact between them, like only he knows how; sucks a kiss against Dean’s shoulder even as he thrusts against him, friction a slow, warm curl in the pit of Dean’s chest.   Castiel says, from against his throat, “Never again,” distantly, and Dean laughs at that, too, because it won’t be the last time; it never is.

“Don’t write checks you can’t cash, Cas.” He says, but lifts a hand from Castiel’s thigh as he does it; holds Castiel’s ear between thumb and forefinger, hand cupped around it. “It’s okay.” He says, again, and Castiel, rutting at his hip, breath ratcheting higher and higher, noise catching soft in his throat, leans his forehead against Dean’s clavicle.

Mutters, “I know.” Then, softer, “I love you.” Dean’s breath hitches, just a little, at that.

“Likewise.” He murmurs, a pantomime of Castiel’s deep voice, and the angel laughs quietly against his chest, and brings their hips together again, and again, and again; draws little whimpers from Dean, wanting noises that draw out of him unbidden; make him clutch at Castiel with his fumbling hands.

The angel, back arched to kiss him lower, slides back; ceases the rhythm, makes Dean mutter his disappointment. Scoots down to kiss Dean’s belly; smiles against the slight swell of his stomach, the indefinite curve at his waist. He puts his hands on Dean’s hips; Dean’s hands go to his hair, tangle there again, fingers wound where it’s longest.

For a moment, he goes still, and just  _breathes;_ presses his nose into Dean’s stomach. His eyes are closed, and when Dean leans up all he can see is a black shape; the thatch of hair on Castiel’s head, his own fingers tangled in it. Castiel’s cheek is warm on the curve of his hip.

The angel slides down further; noses at the hair between Dean’s legs, kisses him soft and chaste, everywhere; the line of his hip, the wet head of his cock, his inner thigh. He runs his hands, gentle, down Dean’s stomach, down to his legs, then up again. They settle on his waist, and Castiel moves up his body once more, crawling over him to reach his mouth again, to kiss him, full, there; he takes both their cocks in hand and jacks them together, kissing Dean as best he can, all the while; mouth wet and wide against Dean’s, breath hot when it slants against his cheek.

He makes a short noise when Dean comes first, over his hand; when Dean says his name, and for once, it’s not a prayer; not a desperate plea to the ether, not  _come home,_ but  _welcome back,_ but  _I missed you, you bastard. So fucking much._ Castiel rocks into his own hand; slick with Dean’s come, leaning his nose against Dean’s cheek, he tumbles after; lets them go and brings his hands up to cradle Dean’s face again, still moving against him, riding it out, breaths in tandem with Dean’s. He is silent, for the most part; his lungs stutter against Dean’s chest. His heart _pounds,_ matching Dean’s, rhythm for rhythm.

He rises up on shaky limbs and kisses Dean’s mouth again; Dean lifts himself up, pushes into it, hands still fisted in Castiel’s hair. “You’re home?” he says, not meaning to phrase it as a question. “You chose?” he asks, quieter, afraid of the answer. Castiel nods tiredly, nose sliding against his cheek. He lifts himself up, pulls their faces apart so they can see each other properly. 

“I chose.” He repeats, and looks into Dean’s eyes, as he says it. “I’m home.” 


End file.
